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[simulacrist]

with @wlhemina

there’s a matter that needs attending to.

whatever the dynamics of their relationship, whatever favouritism their father and mother might show towards the either of them and whatever bitterness and resentment sprung forth from that root, whatever brotherly and sisterly rivalry they had—they were still von habsburgs at the end of the day, members of the same house, bound by blood, linked by a common destiny and a shared history.

(  surely, that had to mean something ?  )

there’s a threat that needs addressing, and it was urgent enough that he’d be more than willing—perhaps even eager—to seek her out.  

❛  our father is a snake,  ❜  is the first thing that he says upon reaching her rooms, sauntering in with a confidence that makes it seem as if he owns the place.  ❛  a wily snake, i dare say, and it’d have been almost admirable—but now the weapon he’s forged is being turned against us.  ❜  his hands waver a bit on top of her desk, trying to look for a decanter of wine or something that would at least take the edge off, before he lets out a sound of frustration.  ❛  do you have anything to drink here ?  ❜  he asks.

[simulacrist]

ARTHUR.

open starter. 

“It is  nice, to get fresh air for once,” Arthur states, to no one in particular. He’s not been in a social situation in nearing a month, so he feels a bit rusty just speaking to people outright. But he’s got to get back into the swing of regular life, now that the last of his bandages have been removed. So he’s here, commenting on the weather like a common man, “At least the scenery isn’t drab, I do not think I would have lasted this long if the view from my window wasn’t as pretty.” 

❛  nice indeed, i dare say,  ❜  augustinus says, sounding the slightest bit miffed with the overheard comment. he’s almost about to tell the other off, ask the young man just what the bloody hell is so nice about everything—but then the archduke does a quick double take, dark eyes settling on the young lord’s features, and recognition settles on his face as well as in his mind. it wouldn’t do to begrudge the english prince his return from coalescing from the rather nasty injuries he had. so he stays his tongue and tries to muster up a small smile.  ❛  how have you been recuperating, young prince ?  ❜  he asks, his head at the slightest incline in a small show of curiosity.  ❛  your recovery has been in our prayers, so it’s good to see you well at long last,  ❜  he finishes.

[simulacrist]

bona sforza.

Indeed, what she would have done? To answer that, she would have to answer a lot of pressing questions - for starters, the question of who killed him. Then, the whys. Then the hows. Surely, her father was well protected, how could someone poison him so casually? She did not doubt that his death was most damaging for Milan ( he was something of a capable ruler, when she was not intend on humping his way through Italy in order to secure himself a son ). “Oh, I meant by his death, of course. His death weakens us.” It was… partially true. Yes, her father was the ruling lord and yes, he was doing a swell job; she had to admit that, but looking at the larger picture, he was an idiot. A perfect idiot - but, one should never speak ill of the dead.

Still, the archduke’s question leaves her with an amused arch of he eyebrow. “Everyone is worthy of criticism, your imperial highness. There is not a soul in the world that has not done an error or two in their lives. I admit, my father was a capable ruler and a most renowned soldier - I should know, I personally accompanied him in a few battles - but, he lacked… vision.” More accurately, he lacked the balls - the balls to let his eldest, and rightful heir to rule, just because the said heir was born a woman. Now, his stupidity has left her with a potential civil war hanging above her head, and Milan, because her bastard brother will not relent. “What I would have done in his place, and what I intend to do, is to keep our illustrious duchy safe. I suspect that the attack on my father may have been connected to the other nobles dying in such grisly manner. Their deaths make it seem as if they were executed and that itself is enough to raise alarm.” Yes, her primary thought was to rush to Milan to secure it ( in general and for herself ), but her sister’s ill health prevented her. Still, she will find a way to do so from Switzerland. “Of course, they could be completely unrelated to each other, and to the… newcomers,  and if that is the case then the situation is, indeed, most dire.”

❛  hm,  ❜  he says, almost as if judging her words in his head. he is silent for a while, gaze almost contemplative yet his bearing almost relaxed as they sit on the bench, looking for all the world like this is any other conversation and that they weren’t conversing about a murder  (  well, murders, really  )  most foul.  ❛  then i have misjudged your words,  ❜  he continues, and though it seems a prelude to a formal apology, as if he is going to say forgive me for the presumption, he never says them. instead, he simply raises his hand to scratch his chin—a damnable habit he often keeps doing that it’s almost a fatal tell.  

❛  vision,  ❜  he echoes, and it’s almost like he’s mocking her, except the look in his eyes is thoughtful. it’s telling, really, which words she uses and how she says them. it’s a delicate turn of phrase but it undercuts what augustinus would dare to guess is a very deep resentment.  ❛  and what vision did he lack, my lady bona of milan ?  what ought he have seen ?  would you have had him share your vision ?  ❜  here, he does not use presumption anymore; instead he is asking her point-blank, almost too directly and too straightforwardly. his own wording is almost aggressive in its delivery and yet—and yet his tone remains light, keeping to a casual tone, staying in an informal register. it is clear that she wants milan to herself; but what does she plan to do with it ?  it is on this question that any potential support—whether to her bastard brother  (  and he does not mean that insultingly; it is only a statement of fact  )  or to her—will hinge upon, because he will not have another frontier of the habsurg imperium, especially one in its underbelly, be so exposed.

his own lips purse at the mention of the newcomers, almost a hand shown too soon, but any idiot with a brain would have deduced, even without seeing him, that he was rather ticked off  (  and what an understatement that was !  ) by his father’s actions.  ❛  there are very many things to be said of the newcomers,  ❜  is what he chooses to say, the words almost inane and ineffectual due to his choice of keeping to his own policy of neutrality.  ❛  i would rather not speculate so much about strangers whom we do not know, not when there is so much left unanswered, even from the very beginning.  ❜  here, of course, is a slight hint towards his own belief that all these attacks were connected ever since the start; but then he falls silent, and he says nothing more than that.

[simulacrist]

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post count this week (  mar. 22 - mar. 28  ) : n. of replies (  2  )

point gained: 2 points (  in-character replies  )  +  0 bonus points (  per five replies  ) =  2 points

point allocation:  +2 influence

health total:  84  /  150

[simulacrist]

guilherme de barcelos.

Guilherme regarded Augustinus as a strange man. One whose company he enjoyed nonetheless. At first he had been patient for the possible gain his family might achieve through the friendly acquaintance, but every now and then Augustinus had revealed glimpses of himself that Gilherme could not help but see himself in. Now was such a time. Respectfully Gilherme listened, his eyes focused on the man with unwavering respect as the other recalled those times of war. He heard the bitterness and silently wondered how Augustinus hid it so well and then he saw the change, the smile, and Guilherme thought it was not hiding that he did. The poor man must be pushing his raw emotions deep down until the denial surfaces and the man he wants to be, not the man he truly is, comes forth and smiles. Even in that, Guilherme saw some of himself, though Augustinus was an extreme. Was he not extreme in all he did though?

“I see,” comes the quiet whisper, the third companion now long forgotten even by himself as he dozed nearby, “I understand. I have made my duties what you have made of drink. For once, Augusitnus I think you might have made the better choice.” 

It was Guilherme this time who made the hand gesture that called for servants to fill their drinks though his still held half the liquid. “Indeed, because if there is one thing we both know so well… my friend,” he finally gave in, “it is that death and grief come anyway. We have seen it before, we see it again, and we shall see it yet.” 

dare he say that he feels a certain sort of victory after the other male said i see ?  augustinus even thinks he should feel proud in the way that the other mused that perhaps he has made the better choice. yet even as he realises that he should be feeling all these things, the fact only makes him feel hollow: there is no victory to be gleaned from such a win. 

❛  it is a choice much akin to being caught between the devil and the deep blue sea,  ❜  he says, which is, really, not much of a choice at all, is it not ?  and so he could only offer the glass to the servants who eagerly served them their drink, greeting only the other’s words with a somber air.  ❛  ah,  ❜  says augustinus, almost sad, if he allowed himself the opportunity to be,  ❛  such prescient words. i hope that you would be proven wrong, my friend, but i fear that you only hit the matter on the head.  ❜

death and more death. will it never end ? is that supposed to be his inheritance from his imperial father ?

[simulacrist]

bona sfoza.

It was hardly flattery - she was honoured by his presence. A great figure of a great empire coming to converse with a daughter of the, now late, duke of Milan. She was honoured indeed. But, it was hardly in her character to keep insisting on ‘how honoured she was’ and composing lyrics about his magnificence - he knew his own magnificence, he hardly needed Bona Sforza to politely and courteously fawn over it ( she was not the type to fawn or needlessly flatter ). Instead, she simply offered him a thankful smile as he accepted the seat and fully turned her attention to the archduke.

She had learned long ago to read between the lines, to understand all the metaphors and so the archduke’s words made a polite smile tug at her lips - but, then he mentioned her father, and extended his condolences. Bona did not really know how she felt about that, about Ludovico’s death. It made her weary, and cautious, and if she were honest, a smidgen sad - there was no love lost between them, but he was still her father, her blood. And now he was murdered. She offered Augustinus as grateful nod, delicate and composed, with a soft “Thank you.” spoken. And there it was. She wondered if the archduke was side with her - and she wondered just what he might want from her and Milan to ensure his support. Bona was no fool, if she were, she would have been shipped off and married long ago. She found herself nodding, playing along to see if the man would speak plainly, if he would reveal his cards ( and undoubtedly his terms ) in the process. “Yes, it is in a dire need. Milan is one of the central pieces and guardians of Italy. It would not do well to have it weakened, something that my father’s death had enabled.”

he does not care to wonder too deeply at the lack of any spectacular show of grief on her person. augustinus himself understands difficult relationships with fathers, and so her lack of reaction is, he thinks, a prescient look into what his own show of grief might look like when his imperial father finally dies.  (  and dare he say that he almost looks forward to it ?  augustinus has always been bitter about his father, but the things that have come to light about his decision making turns simple bitterness almost into rueful resentment.  )  so he does not speak further about her own lord father’s death, save for that which is pertinent to their conversation.

❛  what would you have done, then, had you been in his place ?  ❜  augustinus asks, almost curious about her answer even as he asks it as a way to test her stewardship of a duchy. criticism is all well and good, but it is difficult to make decisions when one is actually burdened with power. he himself has been the target of many unfair criticisms, with people singling him out as a warmongering crusader-prince when, really, it’s his father that started the whole thrice-damned war in the first place, and he is nothing more but the dutiful son who followed the call to war.  ❛  i did not think milan particularly weakened by your father, if i were to tell the truth; and besides, he had been a good soldier and follower of the pope, who had brought glory to our holy armies as we waged war against the unholy infidels.  ❜  an amused tone slips into his last words, almost sardonic, yet one would blink—and then it is gone.  ❛  with all these, you think him worthy of criticism, my lady ?  ❜  and his tone doesn’t even sound accusing; instead, he merely sounds amused, as if it’s a joy to him to be so contrarian, like he’s eliciting some sort of reaction from her.

[simulacrist]

The old world is dying, and the new world struggles to be born; now is the time of monsters.

Antonio Gramsci (“La crisi consiste appunto nel fatto che il vecchio muore e il nuovo non può nascere: in questo interregno si verificano i fenomeni morbosi piú svariati.”)

[simulacrist]

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post count this week (  mar. 15 - mar. 21  ) : n. of replies (  23  )

point gained: 23 points (  in-character replies  )  +  4 bonus points (  per five replies  ) + 3 points ( task ) =  30 points

point allocation:  +10 luck, +10 intelligence, +10 wealth

health total:  82  /  150

[simulacrist]

yi seonhwa.

    seonhwa had never seen such a wide array of flowers before ; ones with names she had never heard of & colors so vivid, that she thought her eyes may have been playing a trick on her. it was easy to become immersed in it all, plunging the princess into her own undisturbed world. she would hardly notice a soul passing by, until someone spoke to her directly. & to hear her own language, even if it is merely a title, is comforting to her. it lays a blanket of security over her, in the already tranquil setting, so her next breath of air suddenly feels more refreshing. seonhwa turns to see a face that had been pointed out to her before & gives a polite nod of her head. “kaiserliche hoheit,” a title that is in her vocabulary with credit due to her brother, though she is sure her pronunciation is mediocre. 

“ah – these ?” she twirls a freshly plucked hydrangea, its color a vibrant pink. “they are for my betrothed’s sister, princess jingmei. did you come to pick flowers as well ?”

❛  how charming !  ❜  he says, the comment meant truly, delighted as he is at the reciprocated greeting  (  in german too !  )  and the presence of new information. augustinus, ever imperial, tried his best to be up-to-date with all the alliances and linkages that happen in the conclave, and so he isn’t entirely ignorant of word of the betrothal that honours the woman whom he speaks to right now.  ❛  it might be too early,  ❜  he says,  ❛  but i must interrupt to wish you felicitations on your betrothal. marriage is such a sacred institution, and i don’t doubt you’ll be well blessed by it.  ❜  although the wording is meant to be religious, the blessing that augustinus knows would befall on her is purely secular, of course.  ❛  as for myself... well,  ❜  he shrugs before he looks around, trying to absorb once more the serenity of the setting, almost as if it is fleeting. for him, war-weary and battle-marked, it kind of is.  ❛  i have already picked all the flowers i wanted to pick,  ❜  he says,  ❛  which is for my own wife. i am simply here to... ah, find some sort of peace in nature, i believe the poets would say.  ❜  and he would know that full well, wouldn’t he, being a poet himself ?

[simulacrist]

patrick stuart.

was patrick simply for war? or was he simply following protocol? for so long he had lived beneath the hammer and shadow of anne’s tedious ambition and secrecy. and though war had always been england’s prophecy the truth was that patrick simply wished for war on scotland’s behalf. he wished to separate the two lands once more for scots to live independently, to speak their gaelic words and not to feel the squash of english feet. he, himself, as prince and consort rolled into one patrick knew the weight that england carried - and as any leader would do, he felt a sympathy and nurturing nature towards the scottish people. no, he would fight if he would have to, to pass the role of leadership to his second born, arthur. his lips dry as augustinus spoke with less enthusiasm, patrick ran his toungue along his mouth and watched as the heavy line of the archduke strayed with the weight of some wish that may provide worthy enough to feet the various companies that followed each powerful country. lost in thought he almost forgets to speak before a splash takes him from the inner depths of his mind - a laugh bellowing from his very throat as he watched the archduke reel the line. “quick, your grace! you must not loose it,” patrick exclaimed, one thick finger pointed to the water’s direction, where the ripples danced with more and more velocity. though patrick was neither an ambitious or deligent man, he decided in that moment to perhaps try a little harder with the heir to the holy roman empire; with a clearing of his throat he straightened his back and moved to get closer, as if proximity may help augustinus . “you speak very loudly off heathens as heir to the empire, if you do not mind me commenting -” 

he cannot help but turn his full attention back to the rod, hands trying to reel in the catch, arms pulling up the fish that had managed to be lured. he could feel the line tense and, for a moment, he feared it would break under the force; but then water splashes upwards to his boot, and the fish is lifted up, almost a great thing to behold. it is almost as big as his forearm and looking to be a bit heavy, confirming the latter fact when he unhooks it from the line and carries it in his arm like a babe.  ❛  would you look at that ?  ❜  he says, eyes looking down at his catch.  ❛  i reckon this might very well count for a donation of two, wouldn’t you think ?  ❜  he lets it rest for a moment on his arms, before he kneels down and puts it on the basket laid aside for catches, humming some old war song that had been his habit when he forgets himself. it’s only when the prince consort speaks once more that augustinus turns his attention back to his partner, looking upward as he stays there, still kneeling before the basket.  he is unsure of the tone of the question and so he stays somewhat guarded, almost as if this was a test.  ❛  i do not mind at all, prince consort !  ❜  he says, his own tone agreeable enough.  ❛  ah, do i really speak very loudly ?  ❜  a self-deprecating smile, almost as if abashed and embarrassed to be called out like so.  ❛  it is mere habit, i would suppose.  ❜  then he stands up and waves his hand dismissively.  ❛  i try my best not to think about the whole matter much. this holy war  ❜  — and here his tone almost sounds sardonic, as if he’s amused by something he shouldn’t be —  ❛  is just one of my very many duties, you understand ?  one amongst many.  ❜

[simulacrist]

louisa de bragança.

At times she wondered if there was more use in speaking to a brick wall rather than her own husband’s ears. He failed to grasp anything she attempted to explain to him and picked and chose whatever he wished to hear. Was he so incredibly ignorant, or so absolutely deprived of any praise that he searched for it in her every word. She made no attempt to correct him, did not even roll her eyes. If anything, she remained a still regal statue that simply let the words pass her by. “St. Michael would indeed not restrain from bloodshed come armageddon, but there is exactly the point, dearest. Armageddon has not yet come and so the battle is not fought over survival but driven by another motive. This false motive is what I chose to condemn. I believe in times seeming peace he would chose the path of prayer, which most pretentious warriors fail to do” 

She may attempt to keep herself from falling for his apologies, but Lord knew she did not have the strength to stand her ground. It took him mere seconds, a touch of his hand, to melt away the walls of ice she had spend years to build. All it took was the grand image of the royal Emperor’s son reduced to but a mere man as he took her hands in his. Pledging to her his life, not because his duty bound him to but because he truly wished for it himself. In this way he vowed himself to her. What she was now was the image of a true ruler to her, rather than the despised image of the monster on a field of slaughter. It showed the true and caring heart she had gotten so familiar with and which she would love until her dying day. His devil side, for a moment, seemed to hide below the surface . It were these moments that conflicted her so, but she did not pull away from him. Allowed his lips to kiss the dark skin of her hands, in what seemed to be an attempt to seal his promise. 

Would he truly content himself with spending his days chasing after her affection? And was it fair of her to give him hopes of mending what had been broken and shattered for so many years, when she herself had thought to find closure in shutting out all emotion? Did she not lie to him in return by giving him that spark of hope that by repenting he would find his way back to her. In truth, she did not know if she could open her heart again. It was no lie because she had no answer to the burning question his lips, which continuously caressed her skin, asked of her. “Good.” was the only answer she had for his final pledge. Not because she did not wish to say more. Oh how she longed to reach out to touch the face of the man who had shown a vulnerable side to her now which she had deemed long lost on the battlefield. Who repented even in this very moment before her eyes, by allowing vulnerability to show. She wanted to say so much more, to make pledges in return that her love had not faded. That her heart had not strayed from him and would never. - It was not worth the risk, not for the sake of false promises, to turn into that which she had come to despise for so many years. 

As the sounds of trumpets echoed through the air, her eyes followed her husband’s upward to the sky. To the flocks of birds that fled the scene with haste. Disturbed by the loud sound of the instrument perhaps, but the archduchess felt a sensation of discomfort washing over her like a wave. As if the heavens told her unconsciously that there was something not quite right. “Augustinus” she mumbled his name as her hand clutched his a little tighter. Beneath the surface a hidden question, begging him not to stray from her side now. 

It was in that moment that people came rushing to the fields. Men that were easily recognized as King Diebold’s mercenaries. Too rough around the edges, burly but swift. They rushed to a scene not too far from where they stood themselves. What tragedy had unfolded there was hidden from sight by the many beautiful flowers and hedges, but it could not keep a shrill cry of a woman from reaching their ears. The pain and grief in her screech chilling the Archduchess to her very core. “It seems as though you are right, Liebes, but I can not say that I enjoy this one bit. There is something not in ordnung.. - Let us go to the main square. Surely the King will put this matter, whatever it is, to rest quickly if he knows what is good for him”

❛  a false motive it may be,  ❜  he says,  ❛  but it is nevertheless a motive called for by the pope and by my father, the emperor.  ❜  is there some sort of bitterness in his voice ?  maybe there was, a resentment bred deep from the violence that had been his sole inheritance thus far from his father. dare he now compare himself to some kind of long-suffering martyr ?  it seemed frivolous and shallow to do so, and yet he cannot help but feel like one: much maligned by those closest to him, adored for all the wrong reasons. when did all that red in his hands stop becoming blood and start becoming a point of fact, some everyday fact that he had forgotten the cruelty of ?  who is to blame for his current state of mind and soul ?  was it not the pope who insisted on cleansing the earth of infidels ?  was it not his father who hungered for more, always more ?  ❛  i pray to st. michael, wouldn’t you know ?  ❜  he asks, his tone almost turning distracted, the confession almost sudden.  ❛  i pray that they preserve me from the battle. it’s a bit selfish, maybe, but i would like to come back to you and the children every time i put on my armour.  ❜

his words are brave but the praise that he garners for his actions just seconds prior warms his heart, almost as if it’s a sign of some kind.  (  and he will interpret it as such.  )  he puts their hands down and questions it no more, only looking at her and nodding his head but once, as if to acknowledge that singular word of praise coming from her lips.  ❛  very well,  ❜  he says, and then — no more. he lets silence fall just as the trumpets sound around them and they are led to a rather auspicious moment that feels like another breakthrough of some kind, just as he feels he had their own just moments before.

clutched hands grew tighter and he cannot help but squeeze back, almost as if to confirm to her that he is there.  ❛  a bad omen for king diebold,  ❜  he says, almost frozen in place as he watches those mercenaries swarm around the field, as a shrill scream reaches his ears. superstition does not become him, but primal instincts are hard to quash, and he feels the hairs at the back of his neck stand up, as if to say danger.  ❛  so soon too after such tragedy,  ❜  he says, shaking his head almost as if in dismay.  ❛  may god protect us.  ❜  yet, a thought almost blasphemous: where was god in the battlefield ?  where was he during the attacks that had preceded his arrival ?

their walk is tarried, almost rushing. there is an urgency to their steps that makes silence, tense and unforgiving, reign between the two of them; yet he never once lets go of her hand, even clutching her close as they near the square, finally arriving in time just as figures arrived in the main square. the feeling of confusion and cold fear hung in the air, almost like there was the sword of damocles hanging above them, ready to fall at any moment. what sort of purposes do these visitors seek ?  and yet, just as he is about to ask, each figure stepped forward, proclaiming their own missive to the gathered crowd that have come to witness the spectacle.

[simulacrist]

bona sforza.

Life brought along many strange things. Her stay in Switzerland was proof enough of it - she had been in Bellinzona for less than a week, and things have already been in motion ( of course, she was most careful about those motions. like a rock sliding off the side of the snow covered mountain, bringing forth the avalanche ). She was perhaps not as surprised as she should have been when she learned that the affairs of Milan reached much larger ears - much more powerful ears, to be exact. But, her duchy was crucial for certain things and if it she could have it her way, then the place of not just her Milan, but Italy itself, would be… greatly elevated. Alas, she was but a woman in a man’s world, yet she found herself more capable than most of the men around her. But, she was not as presumptuous, or foolish, as to think of herself more capable than the man striding towards her ( she had heard a great deal about the archduke and she had nothing but great respect for him ).

“Archduke, it is an honour.” Bona replied, offering him a polite and respectful smile, dipping her chin in greeting. Amused by the display of wit, her lips twitched at the corners, but the following words caught her attention and a surprised sort of curiosity surged through her body. Oh, this was interesting, she thought to herself. “Indeed. After the snow thaws and the frosted flowers wither away, something new will undoubtedly bloom.” She replied, then offered; “Would you be so kind to join me at the bench?”

❛  you flatter me by calling my presence an honour,  ❜  augustinus remarks but he nonetheless accepts it with a smile, following her lead as she sits the both of them down on the bench. he is eager to see how she comports himself, and already she is impressing him by being more than willing to take the lead with him. perhaps other princes might call it presumptuous, even disrespectful of the hierarchy that their alliance formed, but he has never been one to pay much mind to traditionalists. 

❛  something new will bloom indeed,  ❜  he says solemnly, crossing his legs as he makes himself comfortable in the bench, dark eyes surveying the scenes of nature that surround them: the greenery of the trees, the sun’s bright rays, the air blowing on his cheek.  (  he cannot help but think, too, of the lack that he is sensing: there is no stench of blood, no screaming in his ears, no pain in his body from too many days marching and the hardened blows of battle.  )  ❛  perhaps those things that are blooming are closer to us than we think,  ❜  he says idly, before:  ❛  i extend, of course, my deepest and sincerest condolences to you after the loss of your father.  ❜  he is about to say esteemed but then he remembers about how said father just tried to petition her out of the line of succession.  ❛  he will be sorely missed,  ❜  he adds,  ❛  and his leadership will be very much... ah, in need of replacement, i would wager.  ❜

[simulacrist]

guilherme de barcelos.

Guilherme barely glanced at his previous companion, too keenly aware of his social weakness. In Augustinus however, he could recognize an aspect of himself he often tried to restrain while the Grand Duke not only set it free but also fed it constantly. 

Manipulation. 

Guilherme faintly smiled, almost imperceptibly, as he raised his glass and briefly sipped it in  purposeful contrast to the Grand Duke’s extended sip. He leaned back comfortably, carefully listening to the virtues of constancy relayed by the other. To his delightful surprise, he agreed. He had himself lived a life bent on consistency and dependability for the sake of his children, and though he had no ambition to climb further levels of power, he had endeavored to build a reputation that might benefit the future of his children. He saw the humor in it too, though perhaps entirely differently to the kind the Grand Duke seemed to exude. And so, he sipped his wine in quiet agreement rather than continue the conversation. He knew it was not a topic someone like Augustinus would dwell on for long. 

“Yes, Sir?” he said, the change from the use of royal highness clearly acquiescing to the expressed friendship though Guilherme doubted the sentiment to be real. It was no judgement upon the Grand Duke, rather Guilherme’s cynical view of relationships among men of power. Though, he allowed himself to amend, he was not a man of power worthy for the Grand Duke of the Holy Roman Empire to use except perhaps as an excuse to drink. 

“Augustinus,” Guilherme expertly swirled the wine in his glass relaxing further upon his seat though he had had but 2 small sips, “my youngest son burned to death, one of the 4 reasons I survived my dead wife. Gone.” He paused to take the 3rd sip of the evening as if the topic of conversation were typical and trivial, “I am not well. Shall we cheer to that?” Guilherme raised his glass, “to death and grief.”

guilherme certainly knew the quickest way to kill the mood, sapping whatever festive energy augustinus had in him—not that, it must be said, he had any in the first place. he has become rather used to the simulacra that is the imperial heir inhabiting his body, and so any feeling of cheer that he claimed to possess is nothing more than but a simulation of the real thing. he reckons he might taste the genuine feeling soon enough—he hopes for it even—but until then, he is nothing but one of those wonders that enterprising investors often visit the court for: an automaton of moving parts, directed by nobody, yet still moving towards whatever desired result it was built for.

(  and here an errant thought: what is he built for ?  )

❛  guilherme,  ❜  he says slowly, as if to reciprocate the other’s usage of his personal name—a usage that he has been waiting for all this time. was this his purpose ?  he didn’t know. he just feels—ah, no, it is not that he feels; it is that he wants to feel, and that is his singular downfall: burning bridges if only to feel the warmth on his skin.  ❛  i must say this now: i have had many a man fall before my eyes,  ❜  he remarks, his tone still lights as if they were talking about anything else but death,  ❛  good christian men whom i have bonded with in the many years of this war, ripped away from this world of the living even as they sing praises to the lord and wage holy war that the pope tells us is the lord’s holy will.  ❜  bitterness marks his tone, a sort of resentment that he does not show very often and will not show perhaps ever again—because then, his face breaks out in a smile, almost terrible in its formulation and its placement in the conversation.

❛  still,  ❜  he says, almost shrugging,  ❛  i drink—and you know why i drink ?  because it is easier to wallow in wine than to wallow in endless despair.  ❜  he does not know why he is being so honest. perhaps he needs this, or perhaps he has always been meant for some great breaking and it is only fate that he has unravelled in front of one whom he would call a friend.  ❛  so yes,  ❜  he says,  ❛  i do think we should cheer to death and grief—lest we be lost in its depths forevermore and so make ourselves lost to our loved ones as well.  ❜

[simulacrist]

wilhemina von habsburg.

t h e little, indignant-sounding hmph that echoes in her throat is meant playfully; for now, she has little cause or use for quarrel with her brother. as much as they disagreed upon, they had enough common ground to stand on.

for now, though, the triumphant little smile on her face turned to a thorn-sharp grin. 

“ mines, augustinus. ” she makes a show of the little letter in her hand, its contents confirming what she and her inner circle of courtiers had suspected for a few years now. her voice is now hushed, but excitement glints in her crystalline eyes. “ we have found not only an iron vein in the heart of austria, but a salt deposit too, not five leagues away from my summer home in bad ischl. ” she hands him the letter, pinched between forefinger and thumb. “ here— read for yourself! ”

he doesn’t know if the grin is meant to mock him or if it is meant truly. still, he does not doubt the veracity of his sister’s enthusiasm for the news. the letter is freely waved about in front of his face and it almost amuses him, this show of nigh-childish glee.

(  if only he could share the same sort of glee !  ah, but the war has hollowed him out fully, and it is difficult to resurrect the same feelings of enthusiasm that had been easily brought up to the surface before.  )

❛  oh ?  ❜  he queries, voice lilting in a mock-show of doubt. he has no reason to think his sister lying, of course, but he only does it to infuriate her, even if for a second. nevertheless, he takes the piece of paper from her, letting dark eyes quickly survey the calligraphed writing that decorates the parchment.  ❛  so it would seem,  ❜  he says, handing the paper back to her.  ❛  how very fortunate for us—and for you particularly—that one of them is so very near your own summer home.  ❜  he does not doubt his sister’s capabilities, but he figures he must still ask.  ❛  you have already made the necessary preparations, i would assume ?  ❜  he states, before he pauses for a second and lets himself think.  ❛  or are you waiting to tell father ?  ❜

[simulacrist]

patrick stuart.

patrick found himself quite eager to impress as he stood alongsie the imperial heir of the holy roman empire; his back straightened with correct posture as he watched his own line bob with the soft flow of fresh river water. with one fish in his basket, patrick truly thought his luck was up ( despite the advertised event itself, the fish had not been biting that afternoon ). with one hand keeping a grip upon the fishing pole, he eventually turned to listen and converse with the man himself. he looked unlike any other man he had seen before, and held a power he could not ignore as he narrowed his eyes in concentration. his statement was not untrue, the thought even bringing a sly smile to his face before chuckling beneath the soft fur of his red hair. “i will tell you one thing, your imperial highness, you will not find me taking ONE bite from such a meal. are we meant to believe that those… heathens would not spike our loved ones with poison or something unsettling for the stomach?” one brow quirks before he loosens his grip upon the fishing pole and shifts his weight from foot to foot with a roll of his shoulders. “perhaps we should both offer a fish? with such an amount of people surely the meal will simply come out as some stew of some kind..” with a soft grunt, patrick turned his attention back to the water and pointed to augustinus’ bobbng line. “is that a catch?” 

ah, so the prince consort is for war. what a pity !  not that augustinus expected anything otherwise, but still... it was fun to indulge in some kind of baseless whimsy where everyone thought the way he did.  (  what a world that would be !  )  why do other nobles find it so difficult to separate themselves from their tasks and obligations ?  it’d be a far simpler world—indeed, far peaceful too—if they demarcated clearly the lines between what they wanted and what was asked of them. for instance, augustinus was asked to take up sword for holy cross and all that tosh; he himself, however, followed his imperial mother by desiring peace. this is, of course, a very confusing way to live; but he had made it work, and he had assumed  (  incorrectly, he now realised  )  that all other nobles also wished for peace in their heart of hearts even as their duties required them to be for war.  ❛  ah, of course,  ❜  he says, voice almost losing his enthusiasm.  ❛  they’re heathens, all of them... very nasty crowd, their whole lot.  ❜  it almost sounds as if he is simply talking about some group of ragtag peasants who would not move out of the grounds of his country estate, instead of a coalition of some of the most powerful nations on the face of this earth.  ❛  it might be a good idea to skip the meal altogether,  ❜  he adds, voice seemingly sarcastic.  ❛  what use would it be, really, if all of us would just be suspicious of each other and refuse to touch the food ?  i dare say it would be a rather chilly affair and perhaps more detrimental to the swiss king’s purpose.  ❜  he scratches his chin with a free hand, almost as if deep in thought.  ❛  i had hoped for something more imaginative to offer but you do speak truly, prince consort,  ❜  he remarks, before suddenly straightening up at the other’s call to attention. he almost drops his line in his rush, his other hand quick to grasp the rod.  ❛  oh, heavens,  ❜  he says, before his hands catch up with his train of thought, fingers quickly reeling in the line.  ❛  here’s to hoping it’s a big one !  ❜

[simulacrist]

louisa de bragança.

There were times where she attempted to recall when the nature of their non-verbal language between one another had changed. When tease had turned to wickedness and appreciation had turned into the sharp edge of mockery. The chances of them coming to a mutual understanding over the matters of war and politics were slim. Not highly irregular for royal pairs, but the refusal to accept the other’s truth or settle it kept them twisting and turning around one another. Both acted out of the interests of their Empire, but it was a turning point when common interest became self interest that Louisa saw a difference between the two of them. A difference she could not make him see, nor overcome herself. The fact that there was no escaping this time certainly put an extra layer of pressure on their already heavy shoulders. “From the hands of a creator flow only partial truths, Meine geliebte, for his eyes are also corrupted by opinion and money put in his account. I will not deny that you never fail look magnificent, regal..-” Her brown tourmaline hues darted down, as if she attempted to observe the accuracy of one of the more recent paintings that now decorated the halls of their palace. Quick but shamelessly studying his physique, before returning her gaze to meet his. “but I think creative expression envisioned a pure heavenly light to shine upon you time and time again and forgot to capture the blood red river beneath your feet.”

He cut the following sentence to her remark short, and rightfully so. From a few years after they were wed, their lives revolved around broken promises and half-truths. His denial and then shifting the blame upon all but himself did not make it less true, nor did it make it hurt any less. The look in his eyes as he recognized this flaw now showed a more vulnerable side. She did not take pleasure in the sight, but was too embittered to reach out and console. It was only a fraction of the disappointment and pain she had had to endure. “Consider this a release from the obligation to keep me satisfied by providing false hope.” The ice in her own voice took the archduchess by surprise. His words caused an inner conflict.. She didn’t want him to be motivated by obligation, but to be moved intrinsic motivation. To say the words because he wished to keep them, not because he must. It was too much to ask, she knew it well. “Know that I shall pray you find a way to fulfill this part of the convenant, for the sake of our Empire.”

The emotions they displayed towards one another were ever changing as the weather in spring. One moment there was cold, nature deprived of any color or song, - A moment later there was warmth, blooming flowers and the world was painted in rose and lilac tones. It showed the completion of their feelings towards one another. Unpredictable, unavoidable but forever glorious. She was happy to revel in the single moment of bliss they granted one another. Where they found themselves in peaceful togetherness and ignorance of the world that surrounded them. In the back of her mind she knew that there had ever been a time where it was so easy to ignore the world when they were with one another. Ignorant youth, that ran far to the corners of their own little kingdom within a guarded castle to forget the time. But like it had then, time returned to them now. Always far too soon.

She loved, loved fully and faithfully, and lost him. Reality snapped back in place more easy and readily than she hoped it would. Had they been but a man and a woman, she would have eagerly accepted his hand. In truth, their lives were too complicated for such wild whims. Every actions and decision too heavy to not be weighed carefully. “Your proclaimed silence on any matters of war would win my favor, yes, but I do not make any promise now which I am not certain I can keep.” Unlike yourself.  The words that were not spoken from her lips were clear as day in her eyes.” – His following words, though perhaps spoken with good intend, stung. ‘They would be as they were’. How dare he make such impertinent claim. She couldn’t help but wonder if it simply turned into one of his most awful habits to give her hope and then mercilessly crush it again under his Imperial boot? Did he truly not see that she had long grown tired of this false hope he fed her? The countless nights she had cried on her own, laying besides an empty pillow where his head should be were not forgotten yet.

He was not wrong. They were chosen, sworn before kith and kin, to do their duty until the Lord would lay claim on their souls. This promise to the people of the Roman Empire was his last resort, the sole reason (so she told herself) that she would accept his hand. If it were not for them, her husband would have returned to find empty chambers and an empty bed years ago.  “I shall give you the honor of my presence, your highness, as your reason is one I cannot argue with. The Empire needs us and needs to trust in this union.” The hand she was about to place in his remained in mid-air as Louisa turned to face her husband. Leaning in the slightest and lowering her voice to a hushed tone, making sure no curious eavesdroppers might hear. “But know, that you may be the commander out in the field but I do no longer yield to your words like a loyal dog. You can not make things so, simply because you say it. If you truly desire for things to return to the ways they once were, to have my love and affection, you shall repent.“ 

- and with those words, her delicate hand gently laid down in his. “So, where will we go to spend the rest of the afternoon, Liebes?”

❛  so i am magnificent and regal,  ❜  he says, almost deliberately missing her point to take whatever charm he could get from his wife, even if the compliment is handed out in a backhanded manner. the smile on his face is perhaps infuriating if it weren’t so charming, used as he is to such compliments yet taking each one seemingly as if he has received them for the first time. in itself, this is a little victory of its own: his wife has spoken positively about him. he would take whatever pleasure and joy he can get from that now exceedingly rare occurrence and question it no longer.  ❛  even st. michael the archangel will be stained with blood come the armageddon,  ❜  he cannot help but quip, however. for a moment, he wishes her to understand that all the evil that he does is for the good of their faith, her faith—which she values and treasures so much at his expense. he cannot help but think that he is besmirching his soul and his reputation for the greater glory of god; yet nobody seems to pray for him and the deeds he has to commit.  ❛  will you condemn him too ?  ❜

the question, once asked, is easily passed over; it almost embarrasses him the moment it comes out of his mouth. although pride is one of his more obvious moral failings, it is another thing entirely to compare oneself to an archangel, and he regrets his words the second they spill forth into audible sound.  ❛  never mind,  ❜  he says, shaking his head.  ❛  you may resent me for my obligations to our holy imperium, but you cannot resent me for vows made in front of our lord and all our family to see.  ❜  and what a treasure she looked then, what a beauty !  she is still one now, of course, and he is still ever so weak for her; but she looked at him then with a certain kindness in her eyes that seems to be lacking now.  ❛  i fulfil this covenant because i want to, so even if you do release me... i will still pursue the spirit of the law.  ❜  the words are commanding, unbending, unbowed; yet he is, in truth, begging her not to release him from any sort of promise between them. he wraps his hand around hers, almost as if to clutch it like a drowning man would clutch a rope thrown from a ship, and doggedly, he peppers kisses on her skin, as if to affirm to her his continued, ever-present, everlasting affection.

❛  that is the only thing i ask from you,  ❜  he says, even as he lies to both himself and her.  (  when would he stop lying ?  but, he thinks, it is for a noble purpose: it is to stop himself from hurting and to stop giving her anymore of the words she would just resent.   )  what he wants, in full honesty, is her love, if he even still has it.  (  he does, doesn’t he ?  it is so difficult to tell sometimes, and he cannot bear such a thought, so he thinks about it not at all. maybe it is better to live in fantasy than such cold reality.  )   ❛  i shall content myself with that, Liebes.  ❜  his echo of the moniker she uses is but an affirmation to himself, one he wishes to do so again and again, whispering it against her knuckles: Liebes, Liebes, Liebes... and yet he stops himself from doing so. instead, he finally parts his face from his hands, and looks up once more at her face.

(  dare he look vulnerable now ?  he has stared death in the face many times over, yet this is the only time he feels raw and exposed.  )

❛  i feel that we should  ❜ — he starts, and yet before he could continue, there were the sounds of trumpets in the air. it must be some sort of message come to bellinzona. swiftly, he looks to the air, where birds flock to the air at the sound of such great trumpeting. it feels almost like an omen: their cawing, their forms against the blue sky.  ❛  what is that ?  ❜   he asks, the question almost rhetorical. he looks quizzically at his wife, then tilts his head back to the direction of the castle.  ❛  well, Liebes, i would assume that the question of what to do with our afternoon has been sorted out for us, yes ?   ❜ 

[simulacrist]

margaret tudor.

location: Castlegrand hives, Bellinzona

The drone of the hives could be heard from a good distance away and it drew Margaret in from the moment she had heard of them. As a child, she had been frightened of them, but her governess had expressed that they do not wish harm on anyone. “Beehives are a kingdom,” she had explained. “Each bee plays a part to serve the queen, just like we do.” Margaret’s tears had dried quickly, and she watched with fascination as the stinger was removed. “Each bee is devoted to their queen and protects her and the kingdom with their life.” Smiling slightly at the memory, the princess drew closer to the hive and watched the beekeepers at work.

“How they handle the stings, I’ll never know.” She said aloud, rubbing the place on her arm where she had been stung so many years ago.

❛  a little bit of danger can be good for the soul,  ❜  augustinus remarks easily, himself highly engrossed at the sight of the workers gathering honey. such a sweet concoction it was !  yet the accumulation of it is ever so burdensome. sometimes, it almost astounds augustinus, really, the lengths the human race can and does go just for their erstwhile pleasures. why subject yourselves to such stinging from bees just for the taste of honey, after all ?

(  then again, perhaps he should be thinking instead: why not ?  )

❛  will you not participate, princess royal ?  ❜  he asks, voice almost beckoning.  ❛  i’ve half a mind to do so, to tell the truth, but i do think such activities are best enjoyed with company, if you understand my meaning.  ❜

Open | Hives & Honey